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Laura Berson

Born on the day of a certain month of a certain year, Laura Gwenaëlle Berson grew up in an unknown city. After a very common schooling, she pursues several types of studies whose names are unknown, but all of them more or less artistic. It is a few years later that she is moving towards a more intuitive photographic, plastic and writing work, enabling her to express everything she knows just as much as the others, with the aim of finding The essence of something. Emphasized by matter and form, great as well as small, imaginary as concrete, its work oscillates between everything and nothing, here and there, where it moves, as an atom (or electron it is according) free, amongst others. It is through her unreasonable syndrome of hyper-sensitivity that she struggles in a totally emotional, sensory, and uncontrolled way, orienting her work towards identity research, the place of the individual in the world, Through body and consciousness.

Perfect America

“I remember the Idyll, Paradise exile where floats, an odor of serenity with regard to my private property.

It is hooked to my Gun that I watch the step of the entrance, where fun no longer has room for immigrants.

It is alcoholic and under the effect of psychotropic, that I like to denounce the messy driver, performing purified zigzags such as an agitator serpent who would dare to comfort himself, comfortably in his sofa, unable to leave the voice to the heart that remain whole .

Did you see me at the wheel of my beautiful Cadillac, what will you say when the oil is blown away in bulk far from my conspiracy considerations?

My country is a resource well that seems perfect, where all the sources of my pipelines run without blinking.

I think in a limited time, which will only result in its vain and ill-weighed ephemerality, leaving here, desert territories and there, little people without money.

The bank pays the rich while those who have to pay the bank sow fallow land.

But I could also be part of Greenpeace, diving at sea and stop eating sausages, or change my “bad hummer” against an electric Toyota…”

“I know: the distances are too big and I’m not a communist, so how do you want me to do it: I have to move.

I try, to pay my bills to, elbow oil force and not with a knife.

It is beautiful to give and give, lessons to our possessions, yet we must look in the eyes of the one who carries the navel of the world, there is only one, who can claim to hold the way All traced …

And yet, I, a people with an air of freedom, I conquered this land shooting on the flank, flanking the fright to the opponents, tinged with their colorful features and their well-trained feathers.

I thought of carrying my past as an immigrant to the rank of torchbearer of the scholarships and magots, of the populations I have decimated, I apply my right of veto on the lands of the expropriated.

Will I one day, I, the whole people, bury the hatchet of war and get rid of the worst enemies of democracy, the aristocrats and scoundrels on their frigate, pretending to govern the rudder of their sovereignty, leading the helm to port Rather than starboard, deceitful tribunes tributary of a few dollars to bury underground…